


Butter and Sugar and Syrup, Oh My

by imaginary_iby



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: 913, Episode Tag, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 00:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17478050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_iby/pseuds/imaginary_iby
Summary: Steve finally gets his pancakes.





	Butter and Sugar and Syrup, Oh My

Steve dozes, deeply content and comfortable. Everything feels soft and cool, the mattress beneath his heavy limbs the perfect antidote to a stressful, exhausting day. He hums, stretches, licks his lips for a lingering taste of Danny. The only thing that would make him feel even better is if Danny was in bed beside him, but the sound of him puttering around downstairs is its own kind of comfort. 

Besides, Steve can still feel the touch of his partner. Still feel the gentle hum of orgasm rolling through his body. Danny, all wild hair and fiery eyes, had guided him upstairs, pushed him to the bed, fierce and gentle and oh so devoted; Danny, every emotion under the sun, had tugged his briefs down with a, “Let’s see how long _I_ can hold my breath for, hey?”

And so, Steve dozes. The breeze from the window is just perfect, and it’s almost enough to guide him to deeper sleep until he hears the shuffle-bump of Danny coming upstairs. Steve mewls, unhappy, because he wants Danny but he wants sleep, too. 

But then, a scent. Something delicious, something coveted, a prize, oh, a prize. Hard won. Rarely bestowed, except for mornings with the kids and evenings when Danny’s so overcome with worry and love that he doesn’t know what else to do.

Still half asleep, Steve smiles, incandescent and so happy. “Mmmhey,” he murmurs, licking his lips again. He feels the mattress shift, then a soft kiss presses to the side of his mouth. 

“Hey yourself,” Danny says.

Steve blinks his eyes open to the sight of Danny, one knee on the edge of the bed. He holds a tray, piled high with plates of pancakes and a carafe of coffee; piled high with Danny’s love and affection, mixed in a bowl and ladled into a pan, gently sizzled to bubbly perfection and served with butter and sugar and syrup. (And a little posey of flowers picked from the yard, because Danny’s a goofball romantic even though they’re not romantic at all, but being cheesy makes them laugh.)

“For me?” Steve asks, settling the posey on the bedside table. “You made me pancakes?” He knows he’s smiling so hard he’s almost glowing, but he accepted a long time ago that Danny makes him goofy.

Danny huffs, because that’s what Danny does. “No, they’re for the _other_ very hot, very naked guy that I’ve got stashed in the spare bedroom.”

“Oh!” Steve protests, faux-scandalized. In deference to the precious cargo on the tray, his tackle is gentle, but it gets the job done: Danny settles beside him on the bed, tray on his lap.

“Eat, eat,” he says, passing over a plate. The stack of pancakes is just perfect - towering, and covered in thick smears of melting-butter and dissolving sugar crystals. It’s decadent and indulgent, but there are no rules in these private little moments. Life with Danny involves lots of crumbs in the bed, lots of midnight conversations over pizza and leftover Chinese food.

Steve does as told, tucking in happily, sipping coffee when Danny passes the mug over. It doesn’t take long to demolish the stack, and after some token resistance Danny slides over his remaining few.

Somehow even more content than before, Steve polishes off his plate and wipes his mouth, licks away a few specks of sugar. Drawn in by Danny’s warmth, he shifts close, shoulder to shoulder, pressed tight and together. The view before him is perfect: four naked, hairy legs, spread out across what feels like miles of plump, luxurious cotton. A picture of pure relaxation. 

“You’ve got the cutest little chicken legs,” he muses out loud, perhaps unwisely.

Danny is electrified. “Excuse me? I bring you pancakes and you bring me pain in return?”

Steve bundles him closer, slides the sole of his foot down Danny’s calf the way he knows Danny likes. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing! You’ve got great legs.”

It’s true. They’re strong, powerful muscles shifting and bunching beneath pale, hairy skin. They’re legs that push fast after bad guys, that stand up on surfboards for longer than Steve cares to admit, that wrap around him tight and urge him to go harder, deeper. But there’s no denying it: they’re smaller than Steve’s own, from the slender ankles to the knobbly knees. “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing,” Steve says again, soothingly.

“Humph,” Danny grumps, but he stretches out, intent on playing a game of footsie. He’s clearly inspecting his own legs, comparing them, and Steve awaits his fate even as he tickles Danny’s ankle with his toes. 

“You’re a caveman,” Danny grumps again.

Steve nods. “This is true.”

“You’re a caveman and you get a kick out of the fact that your legs are bigger than mine.” He pokes Steve’s thigh, but it doesn’t take him long to smooth his hand down to Steve’s knee in a gentle caress. “Well,” he says, coughing awkwardly. “I think the thing to take away from this is that I like your legs, and you like my legs, and that’s all that matters. Capiche?”

Steve takes the get-out-of-jail-free card for the rare gift that it is. “Capiche.” He nuzzles close. “I like your everything. Especially your pancakes. Thank you.”

Danny wrinkles his nose, but accepts the affection with a kiss. “You’re welcome. Don’t say I never butter your pancakes, hey?”

Steve nods. “Never again, I promise.”


End file.
